


Can't Stop

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Jennifer Blake is the Darach, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Nemeton, Runes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:32:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Something's not right," Stiles says, but he doesn't fully understand the truth of those words.</p><p>(The final installment of the Breathe Me Series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY CRAP IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I POSTED THE LAST PART I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> I've been hella busy with real life--traveled for work, traveled for fun (twice), went on TV again, got promoted, had a birthday, became a bridesmaid for TWO weddings...whew. Why is Spring always so busy??
> 
> Anyway. My whirlwind life aside--I HAVE been writing. I'm STILL not done with this part (not even close), but I eked out the first chapter and liked it so I'm posting it before you all forget about me (if you haven't already). HEAVEN HELP ME I WILL GET THROUGH THE REST OF THIS PART AND FINISH THIS SERIES. I WILL. I just have NOT liked, like everything I've written basically, so. :/ 
> 
> Now without any further whining I present to you: The first chapter of the final part of Breathe Me.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who is still sticking it out with me. :)

The nemeton stands alone in its sheltered clearing; it doesn't remain that way for long.

Stiles approaches it, lifts a hand to touch it, and suddenly she's there.

"Haven't you done enough already?"

Stiles stops, looks across the great stump to see Jennifer a few feet from it. She looks unwell. More than a little crazed.

"I just came to say hello," Stiles says coolly.

"Why don't you say _good-bye_ instead?" she sneers.

"Why don't you, Miss Blake?" Stiles challenges.

The pack emerges from the trees then. Isaac and Allison, Erica and Boyd, Cora and Peter, Scott and Lydia, Ethan and Aiden, John and Chris.

They have her surrounded. She seems completely unbothered by it.

"Wow. Gang's all here," she says, simpering. "How sweet."

"No," Stiles says, then Cor emanates from his body's center. " _Now_ the gang's all here."

Jennifer smirks, although she's clearly displeased. "Right. Your fantastical little energy puppet."

"Cor is far more than a puppet," Stiles says. "Would you like to see what he can do, if I set him loose?"

Jennifer only smirks at the threat. "This isn't going to go your way, _Genim_."

Stiles feels the sharp tug at the center of his gut as Jennifer tries to take hold of him again. But this time Stiles is expecting it; this time he's ready for her tricks.

"Nice try," he says.

Twelve voices rise up from the circle, they all chant his name.

Jennifer's hold on him abruptly snaps.

She gasps, horrified. "You little…"

"Yeah," Stiles says. Mocking her earlier words, he states, "Names are powerful, you know."

And Stiles does know.

The concept was simple. On pain of death if ever shared, Stiles told everyone his real name and instructed them to repeat it three times if Jennifer tried to turn diabolical puppeteer again. The hope was that invoking the power of three and combining it with the small amount of energy within each member of the pack would be enough to disrupt Jennifer's tenuous hold.

Stiles is pleased to see that it has done exactly that.

"I didn't even have to get Derek to chime in," Stiles says with a shrug toward his mate. He tilts his head to one side. "You really don't stand a chance anymore."

Jennifer's expression grows mean. "I know you think you've outsmarted me, you little brat. But I've got more than one trick up my sleeve. Can you say the same?"

With confidence he replies, "I can."

Stiles has been doing his research.

A symbol glows as Stiles activates it, a rune called The Rings hastily drawn on the backs of each hand of the twelve who encircle the nemeton. It's a spell Stiles thought might come in handy sooner rather than later and he thought long and hard on its execution.

Everything right down to the shape they're standing in is important. The circle they form is playing connect-the-dots, forming a barrier around the nemeton that keeps everything out—and everything in. So long as Stiles keeps the runes activated and everyone stays in place, Jennifer won't be able to perform her disappearing act again.

The darach seems to realize this as she looks around the group, casting glances at the three interlaced circles printed on everyone’s hands.

Jennifer harrumphs. "A trap meant to keep me in. I see. You think you're so clever, Stiles...But I'm not impressed."

"I'm not very impressed with you either," Stiles shoots back. "But I guess some people just aren't as _gifted_ others."

"Gifted?" Jennifer asks, eyes bright with malice.

Stiles glares. “ _I_ didn’t have to steal power from any innocent people.”

Jennifer seethes.

One second she's a few paces back from the nemeton, the next she's poised over the stump a dagger raised above her head. Before Stiles has time to react, she's slicing her palm open and wrapping both hands around the handle of the weapon. Blood seeps into the etched runes of the wooden hilt, the metal blade.

"We'll see how _gifted_ you are, when I take the nemeton back!"

"Cor!" Stiles screams, but it's a beat too late.

Unholy light in her eyes, Jennifer stabs the crimson blade into the trunk.

Stiles watches with bated breath, but a moment passes, and nothing happens.

Stiles stands frozen, Cor a step away from lunging at Jennifer, stayed by his master's confusion. Derek's hand fits around Stiles' wrist, silently asking what's happening. Stiles twitches his head side to side; he doesn't know. He holds a hand up to keep the pack at bay, when he feels them shift restlessly; it's too important that they stay in position.

" _What...?_ " Jennifer breathes out.

Blood still drips down the decorated knife, pooling on the surface of the nemeton. Jennifer brings her free hand down on the wood, fingers spread, and she dips her head like she's listening.

She comes back up expression a little wild-eyed. Stiles has no idea what she's talking about when she says, "...Something's not right."

Then her eyes travel up to Stiles, who for his part is very, very lost on what's happening.

"It's you…" she says slowly, disbelief stark in her tone.

"It...is me…" Stiles says, one hundred percent not following.

Jennifer tilts her head and looks at Stiles like she's seeing right through him to the inside. "How could such a thing happen?" she questions, shaking her head.

"How could...what...happen?" Stiles asks, casting an uncomfortable look at Derek. Derek shakes his head; he doesn't know either.

"How can you keep it all for yourself?!" Jennifer demands.

"All of _what?_ "

"All the nemeton's power!" Jennifer yells. "How is that possible?! I can't take it away from—”

Jennifer stops suddenly, eyes intent on Stiles.

"I _can_ take it away from you," she says slyly.

Then she's across the nemeton, knife raised above Stiles' head.

Stiles is too startled to do anything about it.

Fortunately, Derek isn't.

The werewolf tackles the darach, knocking the weapon out of her hands and bringing her to the ground. Jennifer screams in protest, then in anger, lashing out at Derek with violent strokes that leave deep gashes.

"Cor!" Stiles shouts, siccing the beast on her. Cor charges, mouth ripped open in a furious snarl.

Jennifer notices him just in time to avoid having her throat ripped out; instead her shoulder is bitten, blood oozing warm and slippery down her chest and arm.

Stiles is beside Derek, eyes pinned on Jennifer, while Cor stands between them, glowing hot.

Clutching her shoulder, Jennifer furtively glances left and right. It's no surprise when she tries to make a break for it.

"Nuh uh!" Stiles exclaims, pulling the strings of his power tight, the action not unlike tugging on the reins to bring horses to yield.

The barrier holds; Jennifer runs straight into it and coincidentally goes flying back. She hits the ground hard, the force field crackling loudly where she made contact.

Sitting up to stare at it, she breathes heavily, weighing her options.

"Did we not establish that wouldn't work already?" Stiles wonders aloud, looking at Derek.

Derek shrugs; he’s bloody, but he’s fine, already healing. "I guess some people don't know when to quit,” he comments.

"Yeah…" Stiles says, looking back at Jennifer, his mouth drawn down in a scowl.

She's getting to her feet now and she looks—flustered. Stiles had sort of been betting on furious.

"Stiles…" she says calmly. "There's been a mistake."

"Has there?" Stiles asks, eyebrow raised in skepticism.

"Yes," Jennifer says pleasantly, all warm smile and goodie teacher again.

"Okay," Stiles says. "And what mistake was that?"

"We're on the same side," Jennifer says in appeasement.

Stiles scoffs. "Oh, is _that_ why you tried to kill me? _Several_ times, I might add."

Jennifer smiles. "Stiles. This is all a huge misunderstanding. Derek, you believe me, don't you?"

Derek gives her the flattest look Stiles has ever seen on the were's face—and that is saying something.

Jennifer sighs. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way then."

She moves supernaturally fast, on Lydia in a heartbeat; no one can do anything about it.

Jennifer lashes out, the dagger mysteriously in her hand once more. Lydia lets out a startled cry as her skin slices open under the sharp edge. She doubles over, cradling her bleeding hand against her. Allison has her crossbow raised and aimed for Jennifer in the span of a second, but the darach has already moved again. This time it's Isaac and another cut across the back of a hand. Then it's the Sheriff.

With each hand she cuts one more rune gets taken out of the equation and the spell weakens a fraction.

Stiles watches her flit about, unable to keep up, always a step behind. Everyone else is doing the same, unable to predict her next move. She hits Allison, then Boyd, then circles back to Isaac for his other hand.

The barrier is quickly crumbling.

"Dammit!" Stiles snarls. "Derek, can you get her?"

Derek shakes his head once. "No. I can't follow the magic. There's no scent trail, no real movement to track."

"Dammit!" the teen shouts.

But then—as he so often does—Stiles has an idea.

"Wait. Follow the magic. I got it."

Stiles closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind's eye. He immediately sees the threads in the aether, the lines that not very long ago he couldn't identify, much less name. Most of them are connected to him, and tied to each member of the pack, to Cor and to Derek. Stiles recalls what it felt it like all that time ago in that gritty cellar when he was tied to a chair with a knife sticking out of his chest and so, so desperate—when his magic had tugged him toward Derek.

This time Stiles focuses on Jennifer. _That_ is who he is reaching for now.

A ribbon of magic shoots forward, weaving through the lines of energy that make up the very air, the very earth, _and then—_

It strikes.

Jennifer yelps, Stiles' magic piercing her like a spear through her other shoulder. Her rampage stops dead in its tracks; the shell around them is thin, but holding.

"Got you," Stiles mutters, opening his eyes. "Cor. Sic 'er."

Cor is off like a shot, racing toward Jennifer. There's an awful moment, almost as if in slow motion, when Cor leaps over the nemeton and Jennifer screams.

She sounds just like an innocent person about to be torn asunder by a monster.

But Jennifer has killed twelve people and he can't afford to go easy on her.

The squelching crunch as Cor's jaws snap closed around her throat is probably something Stiles will remember until the day he dies. Either that or the look in her eyes as she dies.

Stiles thinks it might not be entirely fair, since anyone who was a victim of the Alpha Pack, was just that: a victim. But Jennifer made some very wrong choices after the fact.

Cor shakes his head once, letting the pulp fall from his teeth. He steps away, still alert, but there's no need. Stiles can sense it; she's dead.

Stiles lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Somehow he had thought it would be harder. That the fight with the darach would have had a little more razzle-dazzle to it. Some thunder and lightning as furious as the darach's wrath, at least. But in the end Jennifer had just seemed scared above all else.

It doesn't seem real.

"Is she…?" Stiles asks, just to be sure.

Derek tromps over to the body, kneeling beside it to get a closer look. It's nothing more than a mangled corpse. He looks up at Stiles and nods.

"Thank god," Stiles says, not feeling relieved at all.

He lowers the spell holding together the barrier. It falls away like a curtain at the end of a show. The Pack stands in shambles, clustering together, bleeding in more places than not, but they're all there and they're all alive. And that's all that matters.

"We won," Stiles says, but it feels wrong in his mouth, anticlimactic in a way that doesn't sit right with him.

It must show on his face, because Derek frowns at him across the great tree stump and no one is smiling.

"What?" his mate finally asks.

"Something's not right," Stiles says, but he doesn't fully understand the truth of those words until blood spurts from Derek's neck.

He's too shocked to speak as Derek suddenly falls to his knees, revealing Deucalion standing there with one bloodied claw raised and eyes reddened to match.

Derek's eyes meet Stiles' one more time; the light is going out of them.

Deucalion says, "You've won nothing," and knocks Derek's body over with a kick.


	2. Hurting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS SLOW GOING BUT IT'S GOING, I SWEAR. I LOVE YOU ALL.

Derek is dead.

Stiles sinks to his knees, unable to support his own weight under the avalanche of grief that crashes down on him.

"Derek," he whispers, eyes on his mate's still form. "No, no...no...Derek…"

Cora screams.

"You son of a bitch!" the Sheriff yells, pulling his Glock from his waistband and aiming straight at Deucalion's head.

The sound of a different gun cocking is the only thing that keeps him from firing.

When he turns his head, he's faced with the barrel of a .9 millimeter. The woman on the other end of it is not anyone he's seen before, but her expression tells him she means business.

"Back off!" Chris says, storming over, his own double pistols drawn.

Braeden pulls another gun from her hip and cocks it at Chris. "Not another step."

"Put your guns," Allison says through gritted teeth, crossbow aimed at Braeden's heart, "the _hell_ down."

"Not happening," Braeden replies easily.

"What the hell?" Isaac demands. "I thought you were a good guy!"

"I'm not paid to be a good guy," she says.

"How can you do this?" Lydia pleads.

"Enough!" a voice cuts through all the others. It's none other than Marin Morrell and she strides right past the standoff only to stop and throw her hand up. She releases a cloud of black dust into the air, confusing everyone, until she brings her hand down sharply and the cloud forms a perfect circle on the ground .

"Shit!" Erica shouts.

"Mountain ash," Peter says, aghast.

"Lydia, break it!" Scott screams.

The redhead dives forward, arms outstretched, only to stop short when a blade is pressed to her throat. Her hands are inches from the circle.

"Please don't, Miss Martin," Morrell says calmly, still on the other side of the boundary line separating them from Stiles and Deucalion.

Lydia stares at her, weighing her options for a long moment, before slowly standing back up.

"Good girl," Morrell says, tucking the knife smoothly back into her sleeve. "Everyone, put your weapons away."

"Like hell," Sheriff Stilinski says.

"Put your weapons away…" Morrell says, pulling a syringe from her jacket, "or I will make you."

Chris' eyes land on the needle and something clicks. "You killed Gerard."

"One of us did, yes," Morrell tells him. "Now put the guns away, or Miss Martin goes first."

"You'll never get to her," Aiden snaps, but before he can take even one step forward, Braeden fires a shot off at his feet.

The gun returns to the Sheriff's head in a fraction of a second and without batting an eye she says, "Yes, she will. Can you smell that wolf's bane or do I need to spell it out for you?"

Everyone comes to a standstill.

"I'd do as the ladies say," Deucalion purrs without so much as a glance toward them.

The Pack glares at him, eyes travelling over him to Stiles, back to Morrell, to Braeden.

"Put 'em away," the Sheriff finally says, holstering his service piece.

Reluctantly the Argents comply, Allison tossing her crossbow away when Braeden makes her.

"What the hell do you people want?" the Sheriff demands of Morrell.

"We want this to end," she says. "Everyone stays outside of the circle or Braeden starts shooting. Understand?"

When no one responds, Braeden puts the muzzle of her gun against the back of the Sheriff's head.

"Understand?" Morrell repeats.

"Yes," the Sheriff says tersely.

The others nod as Morrell cuts sharp glances at each of them. "Good," she says again.

She takes one step toward exiting the mountain ash circle.

"Thank you, Marin. Excellent work as usual..."

Morrell goes stiff at the sound of Deucalion's lilting voice.

"...but did you really think it would be that easy for you?"

Morrell doesn't hesitate; she runs forward without a backwards glance, stepping over the ash line and spinning around to face Deucalion.

She wasn't ready for the spear.

Deucalion unsheathes his cane faster than the human eye can follow and lodges it right into Morrell's shoulder with an expert throw. She gasps, stumbles back until she falls to the ground.

"Did you really think I would let you walk away?" he asks lowly.

She looks up at him, eyes ablaze with fury that has no outlet.

"Thank you for your services, Marin. You're dismissed," he says and then ignores her completely.

"What the hell," Ethan says, shocked.

"Jesus," the Sheriff utters, going to kneel beside Marin, the instincts of a first responder taking over. "That man is a goddamn monster."

Morrell grunts as the Sheriff braces a hand against the cane. "He...he wanted it to be this way...Just him and Stiles…at the end…"

"So he slit my brother's throat?!" Cora screeches.

Marin doesn't have a response to that.

"Screw that!" Scott says, storming toward the barrier.

Braeden fires a shot that grazes him. Scott hisses in pain and draws back, Lydia's hands come up to inspect his wound. It's just a scratch, no poison.

"Nobody goes in," Braeden says, tone deadly.

"Are you kidding me?" Erica demands. "After your employer just impaled your partner?!"

"I don't work for him," Braeden says, then tilts her chin up at Morrell. "I work for her."

Morrell nods. "Nobody goes in."

"What are you playing at here, druid?" Chris asks angrily.

Morrell shakes her head. "There is no play. This...it has to play itself out…without interference..." she says quietly.

"We can't take this out until we get you to a hospital," Sheriff Stilinski says to her, pressing on the wound to stem the bleeding.

"I'm staying," Morrell announces.

The Sheriff  doesn't exactly approve of that, but he's also not willing to leave. Not now. So he says, "All right. Best we can do is cut down on the blood loss for now."

Morrell nods, shaky, but stoic all the same. Her attention really isn't on the Sheriff though. It's on Stiles.

 

Stiles is falling apart.

Cor is beside him, whimpering and distraught, pawing at the ground.

Derek is dead.

He can hear people shouting.

Derek is dead.

The bond is gone; Cor is panicking. Their anchor is destroyed.

Derek is _dead_.

"No," Stiles grinds out. " _No._ "

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Deucalion says, stepping over Derek's lifeless body and strolling over as casual as a walk through the park. "I couldn't quite hear you. See, it sounded like you said, "no," which I know can't be the case—" Deucalion's feet stop right at the edge of Stiles' field of vision.

Storm clouds roll overheard, gathering fast and rumbling low.

"—because I really doubt there's anything you can do about the situation at this point in time."

Stiles shoots to his feet, roaring in defiance. His face is mere inches from Deucalion's, they're toe to toe. "I said " _no,"_ you bastard."

"I am the demon wolf, you insolent child!" Deucalion rages. "You do not. Say. No. To. _Me_." Deucalion's voice turns into something unholy. A change overcomes his face, but not the usual shift of a werewolf. It is grotesque: malformed and greyed and jagged. This is the form of the demon wolf, frightening in its visage.

Stiles bares his teeth at it.

" _No_."

"You—"

Deucalion raises a clawed hand to assault Stiles, though it never connects. Stiles arrests the madman's arm with a bone-crushing grip on his wrist.

Flames dance in his irises and when Stiles lifts his other hand, power burns there too. Bright flickers of light that don't quite form real flames. A tremendous peal of thunder and crack of lightning split the sky.

"I said, "no"," he whispers, then strikes.

Fire bursts against Deucalion's skin, igniting his clothes and burning wildly. Although the fire is something unnatural, so is Deucalion's flesh and it is more like armor than it ought to be. The flames cannot consume him.

Stiles is not deterred. He strikes again and again, fire in his palms, in his eyes. Cor is alight too, and when Stiles screams in fury, the wolf's form flares out of control, echoing Stiles' outrage.

Cor splits apart, spreads around them in a crash of fire. Stiles screams again and topples Deucalion, landing him flat on his back on the nemeton.

Cor's corporeal flames takes root in the wood of the ancient tree. He blazes half a mile high, blocking all viewers from the sight within.

 

"Stiles!" Lydia screams, Scott screams, Allison screams as the wall of fire separates them even further.

Cora sobs, a little girl back in that house again. Peter is stonily silent and still, light dancing across his face.

"Let us in there!" Erica demands, wolfed out.

Morrell only shakes her head no.

 

The shouts of the pack fall on deaf ears.

Stiles is consumed by his rage. He's never been so maddened in his life, so burned by a thirst for vengeance, so driven by violence.

Deucalion grapples with the witch, swiping his massive claws against Stiles' delicate skin. The wounds cut deep, but Stiles doesn't notice them. There is one and only one thing in this world that Stiles can focus on in this moment and that's the man who killed Derek, suffering under his hands.

"You cannot win, _witch!_ I am the demon wolf!" Deucalion clamors.

"You are _dead_ ," Stiles growls and his hands wrap around Deucalion's throat.

The Alpha thrashes, but it's quickly becoming apparent that despite all odds, he does not have the upper hand.

Stiles’ power boils over, unbridled and vicious. His spark spreads like wildfire, filling his veins with its searing energy; his skin glows bright orange like he may combust, unable to hold it all in. Stiles’ eyes turn coal black

"A life for a life, Deucalion," Stiles spits, then inhumanly raises Deucalion up to smash him back down against the nemeton.

A crack ricochets in the chamber of fire around them. Stiles' thumbs break right through Deucalion's armored flesh and blood spurts from the punctures. The werewolf's head lolls to the side, neck snapped in half.

Stiles breathes.


	3. Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could I be any slower??? 
> 
> Sorry for the wait! Here's the next bit! Enjoy~

Derek gasps, back in his body and alive again. He jerks upright, hacking and coughing as his throat rapidly mends back into one piece. There's a tilting moment where he's not sure which way is up, but then he settles back into himself and blinks rapidly.

 

A chorus of voices rise up, shouting in joy and relief.

Morrell smirks slightly, one hand pressed down over her wound roughly bandaged by torn shirts and the Sheriff's steady hands. She looks to Braeden, who is looking back, and nods. The mercenary holsters her weapons, crosses her arms, and smiles.

Lydia swoops forward to break the line of ash, Scott at her shoulder.

Only to have the barrier burst into flame.

Scott yanks her back just in time and the two tumble to the ground, narrowly missing out on being scorched.

Gazing at the wall of flames, in a small, trembling voice Lydia asks, "What?"

 

Derek has _no idea_ what's happening. One minute he's dead, the next he's alive and then his entire pack is suddenly separated from him by a vicious wall of fire.

 _Stiles_ is still the first coherent thought he has.

The werewolf turns his head to find his mate, stooped over the body of Deucalion atop the nemeton, as a low fire simmers around the roots, blackening the wood.

"Stiles," he croaks, vocal chords still knitting back together.

The witch doesn't so much as blink.

The fire-hoop encircling the nemeton abruptly shrinks into an orb and then morphs back into Cor. The wolf stands there, attention on Stiles, as the flames melt away and Cor is once again a body of pure energy.  Only his body is a strange color, one Derek hasn't seen before—a deep crimson red.

An Alpha red.

Something's not right.

"Stiles," Derek tries again, stronger this time. He stumbles to his feet. "Cor. _Stiles_."

Stiles suddenly stands up. The movement is strange, as if someone flipped the "on" switch.

A trail of blood leaking from Deucalion's corpse trickles over the side of the nemeton into the charred dirt below—and then Derek sees it.

Stiles' eyes—they're red— _Alpha_ red.

Thinking Stiles is tapping into Derek's own power, the werewolf checks on the bond, only to come close to vomiting when he realizes it's not there.

The bond isn't there.

"No— _Stiles!_ " Derek shouts, lurching toward him.

Derek isn't sure how any of this came to pass, but Stiles has killed Deucalion and _somehow_ taken his Alpha power for himself. But the power...the power of all the lives Deucalion took, the power of the demon wolf on top of the darach's power, it's—

 _It's too much_ , Derek realizes abruptly. The power is too much and it's corrupting Stiles, just like Chris Argent had feared. But Derek had assured him it would never happen, because something like this would only come to pass if Stiles were to lose Derek as his anchor, but Derek would _never_ leave—

And that's the kicker, isn't it? Derek had nothing to do with this; he was dead.

He's sure as hell not dead _now_ though, and he'll do _anything_ to fix this. He won't fail the Sheriff or Chris or the pack who put so much trust into him. And he certainly won't fail _Stiles_.

He won't fail.

" _Stiles_ —" Derek growls, clamping his hands down on the teen's biceps—which wrenches a tortured scream from the werewolf.

It _burns_. It burns in a way that Derek has never experienced before, searing him down to his very bones.

The good news is he seems to finally have Stiles' attention.

The witch turns an amused, soulless grin on him, eyes demanding _pain_.

"You'll burn too," Stiles, who is _not_ Stiles, says, voice distorted and grating.

Derek holds on.

 

The fire is spreading.

"What's happening?" Allison hollers over the rushing roar of destruction.

She steps back again as the flames lick closer to her.

"It's Stiles," Morrell says, a hint of fear—honest to god _fear_ —creeping into her voice.

Chris and John have the druid's arms looped over their shoulders and are dragging her back from the danger. For a change, she isn't trying to fight them on it.

"What do you mean "it's Stiles"?" the Sheriff demands of her.

"It's…"

"He can't be stopped, can he?" Chris asks darkly.

"What?" Scott yelps.

Chris states, "Stiles is out of control. He's going to burn the forest right to the ground. He's going to burn _us_ to the ground. And then the town, and the county and whatever else he comes across, he'll destroy it all, won't he? _Won't he?_ "

Morrell only looks at him; she doesn't need to confirm what he already knows.

 

"Stiles," Derek grits out through the unbelievable pain. "Stiles, it's me. Focus—You have to—Stiles!"

A storm is swirling around them. Some sort of supernatural tornado of magic and destruction. There's fire, fire everywhere, blazing like all of Derek's worst nightmares.

Stiles is at the eye of the storm and Derek holds on with everything he has. He can't even feel his hands anymore.

Cor keens behind him and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, if the wolf even recognizes him or—

Cor.

Cor is still here.

And Cor isn't just _Stiles'_ wolf. He's _theirs_ ; a physical manifestation of _their_ bond. If Cor is still here, and still a wolf no less, then that means their bond is still there. It's just being blocked, suffocated by all of Deucalion's untoward power.

Derek has only to bring it to the surface again.

"Stiles," he says once more, gripping his arms tight.

The burning doesn't lessen; it carves away at his insides like molten sun. Derek pushes through the pain, pushes past all of it, and focuses on Stiles' face.

"Stiles...focus on me," Derek says. "Remember me," he repeats, then closes his eyes.

His wolf howls madly in his head. It calls for its mate.

There is darkness, darkness, darkness…

Then Derek feels a tug.

" _Stiles!_ "

Derek's eyes fly open, irises red; his teeth wrought; his claws free.

Cor _howls_ , a sound that pierces the very heavens.

Derek acts on the impulse, hoping against his miserable hand in life that he's not wrong.

His claws pierce Stiles' flesh. Blood seeps out.

Then Derek turns his head and bites down on his own arm.

Ripped from the wound by the raging wind Derek's blood splatters across Stiles, across his face and his chest—and his bleeding arm.

A percussive sound wave knocks them apart, each falling to the ground with a thud. The circle of force explodes outward, knocking the rest of the pack to the ground and extinguishing the forest fire like blowing out a candle. The mountain ash goes scattering in every direction.

Derek's head reels from the force of it, he hurts down to his teeth. His hands look like he laid them across a bed of hot coals, bone peeking out in some corners, but they're healing well enough. He sits up and spots Stiles a few yards away.

"Stiles!" he calls out, scrambling hand and foot toward him.

Around them the vortex is dying out, slowly winding back down to the earth.

Derek reaches him and he finds the teen groaning.

"Oh, my head, god, what…" he slurs.

"Stiles!" Derek says, reaching him, reaching out and feeling the bond strong and electric between them.

He takes Stiles' face in his hands, unmindful of the scabbing wounds, and turns it to him.

"Stiles…" he gasps out, then waits for Stiles to respond, for some sign that it really is _his_ Stiles.

Stiles squints at him, frowning, and then says quite simply, "Ow."

Derek laughs. He laughs and it's choked and he's maybe just lost the rest of his sanity, but he _laughs_. Because Stiles is okay. They're okay.

"Wha' happen'?" Stiles asks, letting Derek help him sit up.

"The Alpha power from Deucalion...you...you absorbed it, but it was too much. I had to pull you back."

Pressing a hand to his head, Stiles blinks a few times. "Oh. _Oh_. Dark Stiles is not a cool guy, wow, don't ever let me do that again. Ever." Stiles shudders, shaking off the chill left behind by his darker self.

Derek only laughs again.

"Quit tugging," Stiles grumbles, referring to Derek's constant pull on their bond.

"Sorry. Sorry, just...I couldn't feel it there for a minute…"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. Riding the evil high. My bad."

Derek laughs and kisses him.

Stiles sighs happily, then rests his forehead against Derek's. He feels exhausted, drained in every way, bone weary and worn. Rebooting the bond has made him dizzy and sore; this time it feels like a tornado hit him _and_ dropped a house on him while it was at it.

In a serious tone he says, "Lost you there for a minute."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. None of us even saw him until he had already struck."

It's Derek's turn to sigh. "We were too distracted by our victory over the darach."

"Yeah…" Stiles says then falls quiet.

Derek recognizes that look in Stiles' eye—he's hunting something down in his mind, trying to capture it so he can examine it and understand it.

Derek sits back. "What is it?"

"Jennifer. Something still seems strange about that whole thing…"

"How do you mean?"

"Didn't it just...seem like she went down a little too easy? I mean, for someone who had killed twelve peop—"

Stiles jolts as he realizes what had had been bothering him so much.

"Derek."

"What," Derek says, hackles rising at the look of alarm spreading over Stiles' features.

"Jennifer was trying to take the nemeton back—Why would Jennifer need to take the nemeton back?"

Derek tips his head down, not following. "What?"

" _Why would she need to take the nemeton back?_ If she—If she started the ritual up again by killing the next group of three, _didn't she already have control of it back?_ "

Stiles is starting to hyperventilate and Derek clamps a hand around his wrist.

"Stiles, breathe."

"She didn't. She _didn't_ have control of the nemeton," Stiles prattles. Then his alarmed eyes meet Derek's. "She didn't kill those people."

Derek shakes his head. "That doesn't make sense."

Stiles' heart seizes in his throat. "It never did. Killing three people in one night. Not following the pattern of victims from my dreams. All of it, everything—It never made any sense—It—"

Stiles looks toward the pack, frantic. There's still danger out there. There's still someone—

The pack is down. Every single last person lies on the ground, still.

Stiles' heart is in his throat. "Derek!"

"They're alive. It's okay, they're all alive," Derek says, eyes sharp as he checks each heartbeat and scans their surroundings for the threat.

"It wasn't Jennifer," Stiles says eyes large with fear as it all comes crashing down around him. "Somebody else killed all those people to make it look like she did it. So we would call her out and once we had taken down the darach...and Deucalion...they would come for us."

"That's right, Stiles."

They both whip around to find the source of the voice.

" _You,_ " Stiles breathes.

"Me," Peter says, a wicked-sharp smile filling his mouth.


	4. Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys...this is getting close to the end now. There's only one more chapter I've got after this. 
> 
> It's making me a little sad.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I think I'm having trouble letting go of this series. :c I keep getting real emotional-like when I'm working on the ending. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's the last of the action. I love and adore you all! Thanks for sticking with me this far! We're almost to the end!

So it's just them and Peter then.

Somehow Stiles thinks he should have known.

Peter gloats, "I knew so many victims at once would push you over the edge. It was too easy really. After all, you told me yourself, Stiles: first at the hospital, fifteen bodies; then at your own house, Healers and Philosophers, next in line. I just picked some at random. But you fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Didn't you, Stiles?"

Stiles hates himself for not questioning the oddities more.

When Derek snarls and tries to get up, Peter stamps a foot down on his face that leaves the Alpha there.

"Derek!" Stiles cries out. He's too weak. He's too weak to heal himself or Derek; to fight Peter; to do anything other than _sit_ there and listen to Peter's boasts.

"I knew if I could get all three of you together, you would destroy each other until there was only one left standing," Peter says, tilting his head. "A witch or a wolf or a dark druid, I had no idea who it would be...But it didn't matter. I would just pick off whoever was left, weakened as they were by their hard-won victory. I had hoped it wouldn't be you, Stiles. But, oh well."

"You bastard! How can you do this to your own _family?!_ "

Peter moves swiftly, leans down to get right in Stiles' face. "My family," he whispers harshly, "has done at least as much to me."

Stiles' eyes go wide with realization. "Oh god," he whispers.

"Oh yes," Peter hisses. "I know all about my dear nephew's role in things. I was his closest confidant then, you know. I know all about him _taking her to bed_."

Stiles surges to his feet, knocking Peter back a step in surprise.

"His _closest confidant_?" Stiles seethes. "Then where were you then when he was being seduced by an _older woman?_ He was a damn _teenager_ , Peter!"

"Need I remind you, Stiles, that you've allowed the exact same thing?! A mere seventeen year-old falling prey to an older man's attentions!"

" _I_ seduced _him_ ," Stiles shouts and then all of a sudden thunder claps above them, hard and indignant.

Peter's eyes travel upward and he sneers as he brings them back down to the young witch.

"So much power flowing through you, Stiles…" he drawls, "I'll enjoy taking that from you."

The were's claws snikt out, Stiles' gaze flitting briefly to them. He takes a step back as Peter advances on him.

"Peter, don't do this," Stiles angrily pleads.

"Or what?" Peter asks. "You'll kill me?"

Stiles grits his teeth. He has torn through numerous enemies by now, killing is nothing he squirms at; yet he's drawn up short at the thought of killing Peter. He doesn't want to kill him and Peter knows it; in spite of everything he's still part of the only family Derek and Cora, and by extension, Stiles, have left.

Peter continues his advance, Stiles stumbling back while he thinks. He tries to summon Cor, already knowing what kind of success he's going to have.

Peter notices the brief burst of light that extinguishes over Stiles' sternum before it even really blooms. He smirks. "Is your pet too tired to come out and play?"

Stiles refuses to answer him; Peter knows anyway.

Stiles' options are rapidly flipping through his head, each one dismissed when he knows he doesn't have the juice for it right now.

There's one shot Stiles thinks he may have, but it hinges on him being fast enough to get there before Peter can strike; the odds don't look so good, but he can always try for a distraction—that _has_ always been his specialty after all. If he can get to it, Stiles figures tapping into the nemeton would be his best bet.

He glances over his shoulder to gauge how far he'll have to make it—and feels the whole world drop out from underneath him.

The nemeton is _gone_.

In its place is only a pile of ash and Stiles realizes with a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach that _he's the one responsible_. He’s been doomed by his own power. Without the nemeton he has no hope of outmaneuvering Peter.

His hesitation costs him. Peter is on him faster than the eye can track. The werewolf's hand closes around Stiles' throat with bruising force, choking the air out of him.

Stiles grasps Peter's wrist helplessly.

Peter's voice is rich, saccharine sweet as he tells Stiles, "It's better this way, you know. I didn't expect Deucalion's Alpha power to remain with you. That was a rather fortunate accident. I'll be able to get my Alpha status from you, instead of my nephew. This way Derek gets to live and isn't that what you want? Your death will break him, of course, but that will actually make it all the more easy for me to mold him into the perfect slave. I had been hoping I wouldn't have to kill him, that I could keep what little is left of my family, and _you've_ made that possible for me, Stiles—for _us_. Really, I must thank you, my _dear_ nephew."

Stiles' lips are numb. His vision is ringed in black. His lungs are on fire. His chest hurts.

"Do you know what happens when a werewolf kills a witch?" Peter wonders. Knowing full well that Stiles is incapable of answering, Peter continues. "All that power _thrumming_ in your veins...it goes straight to me. I'll get Deucalion's Alpha status, the darach's sacrifices, _and_ all of your magical energy. All of that power will be _mine._ "

_All that power…_

_It goes straight to me._

The words ring in his head, a stark reminder, clear as a bell.

Holy crap.

Stiles has never felt like a bigger idiot in his whole life. Which is saying something, really, since him being an idiot is what triggered this entire chain of events that has led to this very moment.

Deaton had said: _there is a limited supply of power in the world_. _A set amount of power that can never increase or decrease._

Power can never be created or destroyed.

Only altered.

That means that the nemeton may have burned down, but it's not _gone_. It can't be.

Stiles can't for the life of him ( _literally)_ figure out where the hell all that power must have gone. But now he realizes that it's out there somewhere and that's enough. That's all he needs to try.

He reaches out, feels around for it, but he finds nothing. Not in the trees, nor the ground, nor the air around him. Stiles is trying not to blame himself too hard; he is, after all, asphyxiating.

The young witch tries desperately to file through the thousands of pages on witchcraft he's read over the course of weeks to find something useful. There's so much information he's mentally flying through and he's rapidly blacking out.

Stiles knows he has all the pieces, he just doesn't have the brainpower or the time to solve this puzzle right now.

Thunder booms overhead; lightning illuminates the sky.

"Goodbye, Stiles," Peter says, squeezing.

The bones inside Stiles' throat are breaking; he tastes copper in his mouth.

Stiles hopes against hope and blindly grabs a hold of the last vestiges of his power. He feels his whole body jerk in response, feels a _tug_ , just before the world goes white.

White…

Stiles doesn't think that's right. He's died before and everything was pitch black, the end, that's all folks. Of course he had been suspended in animation or something because of the spell that time so...maybe this was heaven.

Someone shoves him in the hip from behind.

Stiles turns to see Cor running around him. The wolf woofs happily at him, prancing around like he's glad Stiles is here.

That's nice and all only... _where is here?_

"Stiles."

The voice draws his attention around and he sees an unfamiliar woman standing before him. She smiles softly at him.

"Um. Hi?" Stiles says.

"Hello, Stiles. I'm glad to see you."

"Do I know you?" the teen asks skeptically.

She seems amused by his confusion. "No. We've never met. But you know my son. Quite intimately, I hear."

"Your son?" Stiles echoes. Then it hits him at 100 miles an hour who this woman must be. He doesn't know how he didn't see it before, but now that he knows he can't not see the family resemblance.

"You're Talia Hale," Stiles says in disbelief.

"I am," she confirms.

"Oh, shit. I really am dead this time."

"Watch your language, young man," Talia chides.

"Sorry," Stiles blurts. This is too weird. That's Derek's mom. Derek's _dead_ mom. Derek's dead mom just called him out for cursing.

Talia ultimately doesn't seem too bothered by it though. She moves on with the conversation and says, "You're not dead."

"Forgive me if I'm finding that a little hard to believe," Stiles says, gesturing.

"If you were dead, don't you think there would be a few more people here? Hm?" She gives him a look like _use your head, sweet pea_.

Stiles realizes there'd be a lot more Hales here. And his own mother.

"Yeah," he says roughly, voice fraught at the idea of getting to see his mother again. Even if only for a moment. "Guess you're right."

Talia nods once. She explains, "This is a plane outside of normal human—or inhuman—existence. Only those who are aware it exists can get to it."

"I'm not at all aware that this place exists, and yet…?"

Talia smiles indulgently. "You didn't know about it. But someone else did." She tips her head downward.

Stiles follows her gaze.

"Cor!" Stiles says in surprise. "You sneaky little wolfie! You brought me here!" He kneels down to ruffle Cor's scruff...which...would work better on a real dog. Then Stiles realizes something: he recognizes this place. Or, at least, he thinks he does.

"This is where Cor was," he says decisively while Talia waits patiently, "when I couldn't summon him to the physical plane. This place was the light in the darkness I saw in my dreams."

Talia nods once.

"I could never get to it," Stiles says.

Talia nods once more. "You were trying to, but you didn't know how. The darkness you traversed was like a corridor between here and home. But you never made it to the end."

"But I made it now. Because Cor brought me here...Why?"

Talia's smile falls away, her face serious. "Stiles, something very important is happening in Beacon Hills right now."

"You mean...with the nemeton."

"I do."

"What...exactly is happening?" Stiles asks, afraid of the answer.

"A failsafe plan that was put into place many years ago...has finally been put into motion. A long battle is finally drawing to a conclusion."

"What battle?" Stiles asks suspiciously.

"The battle to decide the fate of Beacon Hills."

Stiles swallows nervously.

"You see, Stiles," Talia goes on, "the nemeton is a very, _very_ powerful thing. I cannot stress to you enough how important it is that its power does not fall into the wrong hands."

"Okay…" Stiles says. "So Miss Blake and Deucalion getting a hold of it would have been bad. I follow you."

"No, Stiles. You don't."

Stiles flails his hands wildly. "Care to fill me in then?"

Talia's expression goes wry. Instead of answering, she poses a question to him—she's as bad as Deaton.

"Stiles, have you ever wondered who cut the nemeton down?"

Stiles frowns. "Well...yeah, but I mean…" Then his eyes grow large.

Talia nods, seeing that he's caught her meaning. "That's right. I was the one who cut the nemeton down."

"Why?!" Stiles exclaims. "It could have—It could have protected you! Could have protected the town from all the horrible slaughtering!"

"It could have," Talia concedes, "but we could not have protected the town from what was to come."

"'You'...meaning the Hale pack?" Stiles asks. He thinks his heart might be breaking. Derek's mother is basically telling him she allowed them all to die. _But for what?_

"Yes," she says. "My family's power was an old one, and a strong one. But the nemeton grew more powerful with each passing day and it finally became more powerful than us. Powerful enough to draw the attention of those we could not stop from taking it."

"So you cut it down. So the bad guys couldn't have it. So _no one_ could have it."

"Yes. But that was not the end of the nemeton as you well know."

Stiles scoffs. "Yeah. Jennifer-Julia-whatever took control of it after Paige's death jump started it. Looks like your plan didn't work out so well after all."

"No, Stiles," Talia says meaningfully, "think carefully. Alan has told you that power can be neither created nor destroyed, hasn't he?"

"Yeah," Stiles says.

"So if the tree is gone, then the source of the nemeton's power is gone from the tree— _but not from the town_. Stiles: the tree had not been the source of the nemeton's power since the day it was cut down. Paige's death may have reactivated the tree stump as an _access point_ for the nemeton's power, and Julia Baccari may have taken advantage of that, but she never really had control of the nemeton. She only had control of a single entry point into its well of power, not of the source itself."

"What are you telling me…?" Stiles asks slowly, a strange sense of foreboding filling his stomach uncomfortably.

Shadows suddenly begin to close in around them. The vision of Talia Hale is rapidly fading; Stiles feels himself being pulled backward, back into the real world where his body lies.

Talia grows urgent as she speaks her last message to Stiles. "Where did the power go, Stiles? When the tree was cut down? When the stump was burned to ash? It was never truly gone, Stiles. So where did it _go?_ Where is the true source of the nemeton's power now, Stiles?"

Her voice becomes an echo, it's clear their time here is through. The questions are ringing in Stiles' head, filling it up like an overflowing lake.

_Where is the source, Stiles?_

Stiles chokes, back in his body with a jolt and throat smashed in Peter's hand.

Peter looks startled to see Stiles' eyes fly open again and Stiles would laugh if he could.

Instead the witch renews his grip on the werewolf's arm and fights for control.

Talia's words are swimming around between his ears and he knows, he knows, he _knows_ what she was implying, what she was trying to tell him.

He doesn't know why she couldn't have just told him outright, but he supposes that's how things like this always go.

The hero has to fight his own battles.

"Ghk—"

"How in the world are you still alive?" Peter murmurs, grip unrelenting. "I'm impressed, Stiles."

Stiles braces himself on Peter's arm, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his windpipe. It works well enough for him to concentrate for a moment or more.

So he takes that moment to wrangle his magic. He thinks of Jennifer screaming at him about keeping the nemeton's power all to himself and makes a deduction about where the source really is. For the first time he directs his magic inward instead of out, then lets it fly, cast like a fishing line. Stiles allows it do its thing, seeking out other magic, the way it had with Derek, with Jennifer, with the very earth itself. He can feel it cut through him, as swift and fierce and determined as before.

A searing pain lances through him, and when it fades, Stiles pinpoints the origin as being his shoulder blades: his scar. He can feel each line of the Lichtenberg figure blazing, singing, _calling_.

Stiles' thread of magic chases after the siren song. It races to a place deep within Stiles' soul, reaching toward what it seeks.

What it seeks is evidently Stiles' spark and when it finally makes contact with it, the reaction is explosive.

Quite literally.

A display like fireworks shoots out from Stiles' chest; bright yellow-gold streaks of light, sparking and sizzling and roaring, dozens of them blasting into the air. Peter and Stiles are forcefully split apart, both slamming into the ground on their backs.

Peter sits up to watch in awe and mild horror as Stiles arches up from the ground, bracing his feet and shoulders as his body writhes. A tortured yell is rended from the teen and his hands dig at the earth in a futile quest for relief from his agony. The sparks continue to fly, geysers of fire; the air smells like gunpowder and smoke.

The flares rise high into the sky only to fall back down to the earth. Derek's unconscious form is showered in them and he surges awake, alight with Stiles' magic.

He screams and Stiles' eyes travel to him. He can hardly turn his head, he's in so much pain, but he watches as the fireworks blaze over Derek's skin.

His voice is weak when it calls out for him.

"D...Derek."

The were's gaze finds Stiles' and there's terror there in those hazel eyes.

"Stiles," Derek utters just before he doubles over.

His hands cover his face and he roars in anguish; the sparks still dance across the ground, across Derek, across Stiles.

A whirlwind of sorts sweeps up a chaotic ball of the stuff, fizzling and sizzling and popping. Then it crackles once—loudly, like a tree being split in two—and there stands Cor.

The wolf, for his part, does not look the slightest bit bothered by the events affecting his masters. He's a warm golden-orange now and he looks to be excited by it all.

Derek has stopped screaming and lies in a heap; oddly, Stiles thinks everything is going to be okay.

The sparks finally stop. The pain ebbs away swiftly as if being poured out of a bucket. Stiles' body collapses to the ground; he's dazed, skin raw all over, but he appears to be no worse for wear.

His eyes though are on Derek and what's happening to him.

Derek doesn't appear to be fully conscious, but his body is shifting and grinding and contorting. A small gasp escapes him when fur ripples down his spine and across his shoulders, his shins. A black coat spreads across Derek's bending shape; Stiles is not sure yet what shape he will be when his shifting ceases.

Then Derek's whole body seems to stretch out long, similar to an animal waking from a long slumber. Derek is stooped over and seeing that his transformation approaches its end, Cor yips happily and bounds over to him, blocking Stiles' view for a moment.

When Cor clears from his line of vision, Stiles sees that an animal really has awoken.

A jet black wolf stands proudly in the man's place; Stiles gapes at how beautiful he is.

Derek looks straight at Stiles and though he can't smile, Stiles sees it there on his face anyway.

Cor continues to dance around Derek like an excited puppy until the other wolf finally rolls a glance at him. Cor wags his tail excitedly, sending little fireflies of yellow light left and right. Derek headbutts him once and then makes his way over to Stiles.

"You're a wolf," Stiles blurts, reaching for the soft-looking fur.

It _is_ soft, divinely so, and Stiles can't help the tired grin that spreads across his face as he strokes it.

Derek whuffs, shakes his body once, then noses at Stiles' hand, drawing attention there, because it's—

Stiles' hand is—

It's _glowing_.

That's the simple term for it. What really appears to be occurring are thousands and millions of little stars traveling through Stiles' veins, lighting him up from the inside. They're moving like some sort of lantern parade beneath his luminous skin, across his hands and up his arms and through every inch of him. It's sort of beautiful, albeit in a completely eerie sort of way, like someone bottled a nebula inside a person.

"Whoa…" Stiles says.

"You _insufferable_ brat!"

Derek, Cor, and Stiles' heads swivel to Peter.

Peter is _furious_. He's knelt in the webs of ash carved across the forest floor, looking like rage incarnate.

"Peter…" Stiles says. He'd honestly forgotten about him.

"How is it—" Peter seethes. "How is it that a _child_ could thwart me?"

Stiles pauses, but then shrugs. "Same as the first time, I guess—"

Stood on either side of the teen witch, Derek and Cor growl in menace.

"—someone had my back. And _nobody_ had yours."

Peter's face falls into shock.

"That's what pack is all about, Peter," Stiles supplies. Then he raises a hand. "And you're out of ours."

A flicker like candlelight flashes over Peter's forehead. Next thing, the werewolf is on the ground out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the big fireworks-magic scene was inspired by this excellent pic I saw a long time ago. This one right here: http://neitzarr.deviantart.com/art/Part-II-Be-The-Spark-374319375. (Love it!)
> 
> And I just couldn't kill Uncle Peter. (Not in this fic anyway ;P).


	5. Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH no. I'm gonna cry. ;_;
> 
> Guys, this is it, this is the end. The Breathe Me Series has come to a close.
> 
> I can't--I can't even begin to thank everyone who has followed this series all this time. It's been TWO YEARS, guys. TWO YEARS. To the MONTH. October 2013 I wrote a teeny tiny little two-shot that just pestered me until I finally let it out of my head. I had no idea it would turn into this. More than 100,000 words later and here we are in October 2015. Really. You all have no idea how much you mean to me. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, for always encouraging me and for sticking with me even when I was SO SLOW to update (like right now *cough*). You, my dear readers, mean the world to me. You have my eternal gratitude. 
> 
> This is the final chapter of the series, with a small epilogue after. 
> 
> I love y'all. Thanks for the amazing journey through this fic.

It's a similar there-and-gone blink of orange light that brings the pack and guests back to wakefulness. They all groan, holding their heads where they got conked. But Stiles simply provides another bulb of radiance for each of them and all their pain is gone.

Derek looks at him curiously, canine ears perked up, and Stiles shrugs.

"New perks," he says.

Scott is the first one to remember all that's happened and utter, "Stiles!"

Then all eyes are on the mage.

"Hey, everybody…" Stiles says with a little wave.

They all stare in slack-jawed astonishment at him. Brilliance still undulates under Stiles' flesh, and his eyes glow warmly, whiskey irises turned into sunrise.

"You look like a fairy," Isaac says bluntly.

Stiles guffaws. "Was that a gay joke?" he teases.

"Are you a fairy?" Erica asks. "Because I wouldn't put it past you to sprout wings, Stilinski."

"I don't think so," Stiles says, then looks down at Derek. "Derek, am I a fairy?"

Derek shakes his head vigorously.

"There you go. Not a fairy."

"Derek?" Allison balks. "That's _Derek?_ "

"Yup," Stiles says, "all shiny and new. Just like me."

"Is he stuck like that?" Chris asks gravely.

Just to prove he can, Derek shifts back into human form. Buck naked. "No," he says.

"Jesus, here," the Sheriff says, shucking his overshirt to pass to Derek.

"Thanks," Derek says, slipping it on. It hangs awkwardly just long enough.

Stiles smirks at him. Derek scowls back.

"What happened to Peter?" Cora asks, eyes on her unconscious uncle.

"He was evil. So I knocked him out," Stiles replies succinctly.

Cora scoffs. "Figures."

Lydia approaches Stiles all wobbly knees and wonder, drawn in by the glimmering lights. She reaches out a hand to touch, but doesn't at the last second.

"Stiles...your magic…" she breathes in wonder.

Stiles tilts his head to look down at his hands. "Actually, it's not mine, I think."

"That would be correct, Mister Stilinski."

All parties round on the undetected newcomer, only to freeze when they see that it's none other than their mysterious local veterinarian.

"Deaton," Stiles says. Somehow he's not surprised.

Two men in gray scrubs follow Deaton into view, much to the bafflement of everyone.

"Uh…" Stiles says as they approach Peter. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry. They'll take him off your hands. He'll be well taken care of, rest assured," Deaton says.

"Where exactly are they taking him?" Stiles asks as the two silent men haul Peter up over their shoulders and begin dragging him away. Derek and Cora look on without comment.

"Eichen House," Deaton replies.

The Sheriff shoots him a skeptical look. "The crazy house?"

"Mental institution," Deaton corrects.

"Can they handle a _werewolf_ at a place like that?" Chris asks doubtfully.

"They're quite capable, I assure you," Deaton says in such a way that it has no one asking any more questions about it.

Still, Stiles thinks that bears further investigation later.

"Stiles. Derek," Deaton says with a nod to each. "I want to thank you for saving Beacon Hills."

"You were in on it," Stiles says, not a question.

Derek looks over at him. His brow is creased deeply. "In on _what?_ "

Stiles grimaces. "When...when Peter was literally squeezing the life out of me, I kind of, uh...kind of talked to your mom for a minute."

Derek's eyes go wide; Cora's mouth drops open.

"You mean you were dead again?" Scott asks.

" _Again?!_ " the Sheriff exclaims.

"Gee, thanks, buddy," Stiles mutters as Scott winces. "Another time, Dad. And no. I wasn't dead. I was...in between. Cor led me there."

Deaton nods like he expected as much. Then Morrell and Braeden are moving to stand beside him and Stiles gets it.

"Druids," he says. "You're like...a druid council or something and you...you came up with the failsafe plan with Mrs. Hale all those years ago."

"My sister and I are not in as much a council as we are...an order."

"Your _sister?_ " Stiles squawks. "You and Miss Morrell are siblings?!"

"Yes, Stiles," Deaton says placidly.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. "I always thought it seemed like too much of a coincidence that the wolf's bane powder you gave me was the same as the one in Miss Morrell's bullets at the bank. It was no coincidence. Was it?"

"No, Stiles. It wasn't," Deaton says.

Stiles snorts. "So you've been puppeteering this whole mess from the start, then?"

Deaton frowns. "No. To influence events directly would have been catastrophic. We merely lent aid where we could."

"As I've said to Derek," Morrell says, "druids, above all else, seek balance. It is not fair to Balance for an outside force to tip the scales."

"So things were off balance," Stiles supplies. "When you came up with your little plan."

"Not at the time," Deaton amends, "but we knew they would be. The nemeton had grown into a power we could neither contain nor hope to protect. Forces far greater than a mere werewolf pack would be coming for it, if we let it remain as it was."

"So you chopped it down," Stiles says.

"Yes," Deaton says, "just a little over seventeen years ago...on the eighth of April."

 _That_ catches Stiles' attention.

"On-- _on my birthday?_ " Stiles snaps. "Wait. You--you _chose_ me for this? What happened to "not directly affecting events"?!"

"We didn't choose you, Stiles," Deaton says. "April 8th is merely the day that we cut down the nemeton. Its power landed with you because the _nemeton_ chose you.”

"Deaton," Stiles says seriously, thinking of Talia Hale's words. "Back when I lost my eyesight, you told me that the nemeton chose me for this fight. But now you’re telling me I had been "chosen" a long time ago. So it wasn't just “the fight” I was chosen for, was it? The nemeton needed me for something else, too. Something right from the very beginning."

The druid nods once slowly. "When we cut down the tree, the nemeton was forced to vacate-- to find a new home, a new vessel."

"Me," Stiles says.

"You," Deaton agrees. "For all intents and purposes you _are_ the nemeton, Stiles. You have been for the past seventeen years."

A collective wave of awe and incredulity washes over those gathered. That's quite the revelation: their goofy friend is the greatest source of power in all of Beacon Hills. Then again, it _is_ Stiles they're talking about; and Stiles is _always_ surprising people.

The teen in question sags back against Derek and the werewolf comfortingly wraps his arms around his mate’s shoulders and waist. He can feel that the mage is finding all of this rather difficult to swallow.

"So I...” Stiles starts, “I was always destined to save the town or whatever? None of this was ever my choice?"

" _No,_ Stiles. You _always_ had a choice," Deaton intones. "You could have turned as evil as all your enemies combined and all would have been lost. We could have done nothing to stop you from choosing that path. But the nemeton trusted that you wouldn't. It picked _you_ because it sensed that you would make the right choices. And you did.

"Now: the town can finally begin to heal."

Stiles shakes his head. "I still don't understand. Why _me?_ "

Deaton shrugs smally. "That is a question only the nemeton could ever truly answer."

"So the tree _talks_ now too?" Sheriff Stilinski butts in.

Alan smiles mysteriously. "In a sense, yes."

The Sheriff's pose as he drops his head and pinches the bridge of nose outwardly reflects how practically every person in the clearing is feeling.

"So this magic," Stiles says, raising his hands to display his bright skin. "This magic is the nemeton's that was "locked away" inside me all this time until I let it out today. Do I even _have_ any magic of my _own?_ "

"Of course, you do," Deaton says. "Stiles, I wasn't lying when I said you were one of the most powerful beings in Beacon Hills--and that is _not_ because of the nemeton. That's all _you_ , Stiles. Since the day of your birth. I believe the nemeton recognized that even then."

"Right," Stiles says flatly. "So I'm just a magical nuclear bomb then."

Deaton smiles wryly and Morrell's lips twist too. "Quite," the vet says, "but I wasn't lying when I said Derek would keep you from going off the deep end either. After all, when you almost did just that, just now? He pulled you back, did he not?"

"He did," Stile says, gazing at Derek over his shoulder. Derek looks right back, eyes steady and sure. Stiles cocks a grin. "Good job, Der. Looks like you saved the town."

Stiles says it lightly, but genuinely, and something strange washes over Derek Hale in that moment. The feeling is foreign, odd, and he's not sure that he likes it, except that it does fill him up with warmth head-to-toe, so it can't be all bad. Then he rather shockingly realizes that what he's feeling is in fact the polar opposite of his usual harrowing dose of failure: it's success; it's accomplishment; it's _freedom_ \--from his own damning mind.

Shackles fall, a weight lifts, and Derek knows what it is to breathe again.

He smiles gently at the boy in his arms and knows that it was all possible because of him and his stubborn, stubborn ways.

Stiles returns the smile, then directs his eyes back to Deaton and Morrell.

"So. What happens now?"

"Now," Deaton intones, "the town heals. The tree will regrow and when it is ready, your job will be done, Stiles."

Stiles gapes. "I have to wait for a tree to regrow? That could take hundreds of years!"

"Maybe even thousands," Deaton says calmly.

Stiles' hand suddenly grips at Derek's arm; there's a desperation in the teen's eyes. "So it's just going to be me and a tree for a thousand years?"

"No," Deaton says. "You and Derek are bound. He will remain alive for as long as you do, and vice-versa."

That's good news. But Stiles swallows thickly and his eyes travel over to his father, to Scott, to Lydia, to everyone that has come to mean something to him in such a short span of time.

"But everyone else?" he asks, voice wobbling.

"I'm afraid that's out of your hands, Stiles."

Stiles swallows again, nodding jerkily. Everyone watches him with sad eyes as the teen accepts that his pack will leave without him one day.

"And Cor?" Stiles asks finally.

The sunbeam-wolf waits patiently as the humans talk, expression alert, but content. He wags his tail when Stiles, Derek, and Deaton look at him.

"He's a part of you, Stiles," the druid replies. "He won't be going anywhere you don't."

Stiles nods.

"So that's it then, huh?" he says. "Save the town, hallelujah, the end?"

Deaton looks at Stiles levelly. "I imagine it is far from the end, Stiles. The nemeton exists within you and its power will still draw others here. There will be creatures that come to Beacon Hills the likes of which you cannot imagine. Not all of them will seek the power of the nemeton for themselves, but those that do will be coming for _you_."

"Great," Stiles huffs.

"I have faith you'll be able to handle it," Deaton says slyly.

"Right," Stiles says dully. "No rest for the wicked or the guys who fight them, huh?"

"Something like that," Deaton agrees.

"So how do I turn the light show off?" Stiles asks of his still luminescent skin. "Or can't I?"

"You can," Deaton responds. "Find your center and draw it back in."

Stiles does; he closes his eyes and focuses on that place deep inside him where his spark resides. Only it's not so much a spark now as a full-fledged flame. All the same Stiles imagines turning down the knob on a gas stove and reeling the fire back into its spout.

When he opens his eyes, he's just regular ole Stiles Stilinski again. Although those who look close enough will see that there is something different about the teen's eyes, something not easily placed, but something cunning and brilliant and subtly noticeable all the same.

Stiles releases a breath. It feels like he's been holding it for a long, long time. It is finally the end to this chapter and he trades it for what's to come. Derek lays his forehead against his mate's shoulder in solidarity, reminding him he's not alone on the long road ahead of him.

Stiles looks at the pack.

"Let's go home."

They begin to move out as one entity (Deaton, Morrell, and Braeden vanishing quickly and with no trace they were ever there), but Stiles suddenly stops before he's taken even two whole steps.

"What is it?" Derek asks.

Stiles frowns thoughtfully, then without speaking moves away from Derek and back toward the spot where the nemeton once stood.

"Stiles?" Scott calls as the group staggers to a halt.

Stiles ignores him and crouches down in the grey ashes. He brushes them away until he can feel the cool dirt under his fingertips and then--

Then a solitary green sprig pops up from the ruins.

Stiles is surprised to see it although he realizes it was what he had been looking for. His mouth quirks up and he says, "There you are, little buddy. You grow big and strong now, okay?"

The sprout does not respond. But _something_ does and it tells him _okay_.

Stiles still has a lot to learn about magic and the earth and ley lines and—

And life.

He is still only seventeen years old, in spite of all he has done.

But as he places himself beside Derek and laces their fingers together and feels the reassuring presence of his pack, he thinks he'll manage it all just fine.

Thunder rumbles overhead and rain begins to fall, soft and warm and full of spring's hope for new life.

The ashes wash away.


	6. Epilogue: The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here' the epilogue, y'all. Make sure you've read the previous chapter first if you haven't. I'm updating these last two at the same time.
> 
> Love y'all~ XOXO <3

It has been many, many years since the great tree was cut down. Friends and family have come and gone, lived and passed; only two and their loyal companion remain at the close of this passage in time.

With Cor beside them Stiles and Derek grip hands, the skin old and wrinkled, but still healthy and warm. Stiles had allowed them to age at their natural rate, though they never deteriorated in any way. They stand before the spot where a great stump had once stood until it was burned to ash.

Now a once more great tree stands sturdy in its place. It is huge and grandiose and ready.

So are the two men clasping hands in its presence.

"It's time," Stiles says.

Derek looks at him and nods, just once.

Stiles lays a hand on the tree. "It's up to you now," he tells it. "Take good care of the town."

The trio has faced many an enemy and fought many a battle through the years. Innumerable foes emerged from the darkness to try to take from Stiles what he never wanted, but guarded all the same. In all their years Stiles and Derek and Cor never let a single villain succeed.

The guardian has fought long and hard and he deserves his rest.

He drops his hand from the bark, slowly looking back at Derek. For a moment it's the two of them again as they were, young and naive and so, so new.

"I love you," Stiles says.

"I love you too," Derek says back.

And then Stiles throws his arms around Derek's neck and Derek holds him close. For all of his power Stiles has no idea what's going to happen to them. Regardless, it's time to let go of this world.

The sensation is pleasant, like being enveloped in a warm comforter in the dead of winter. And then, painlessly, they're broken apart piece by tiny piece.

Fireflies, a thousand and a thousand more, rise into the air, each one formerly a part of treasured body and spirit. Slowly, the figures of Stiles and Derek disappear. Cor tilts his head back and lets out one last howl, and then he, too, vanishes.

The fireflies disperse, travelling in countless different directions, each carrying a spark of magic that seeks a new home, maybe among a root or a stream, or just maybe, among a newborn infant worthy of greatness.

The forest is still and quiet here, tucked away in its pocket of trees, in the grove that houses the nemeton's new vessel. Two souls and a loyal companion finally move on.

The forest sighs.

At last, there is peace in Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come hit me up on tumblr if you start missing me (I know I'll be missing y'all)! Who knows when the next time I'll post a story will be. I have nothing even remotely presentable at the moment, so...
> 
> *Smooches*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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